A sudden sound behind us made me spin round, and Poirot sprang nimbly to his feet. A girl was standing in the doorway. Her eyes, full upon us, were dark with suspicion. She was of medium height, with a beautiful, rather sullen face, dark blue eyes, and very black hair which was cut short. Her voice, when she spoke, was rich and sonorous, and completely un-English.
“I fear my uncle will be unable to see you. He is a great invalid.”
“That is a pity, but perhaps you will kindly help me instead. You are Mademoiselle Daviloff, are you not?”
“Yes, I am Sonia Daviloff. What is it you want to know?”
“I am making some inquiries about that sad affair the night before last—the death of M. Gilmour Wilson. What can you tell me about it?”
The girl’s eyes opened wide.
“He died of heart failure—as he was playing chess.”
“The police are not so sure that it was—heart failure, mademoiselle.”
The girl gave a terrified gesture.
“It was true then,” she cried. “Ivan was right.”
“Who is Ivan, and why do you say he was right?”
“It was Ivan who opened the door to you—and he has already said to me that in his opinion Gilmour Wilson did not die a natural death—that he was poisoned by mistake.”
“By mistake.”
“Yes, the poison was meant for my uncle.”
She had quite forgotten her first distrust now, and was speaking eagerly.
“Why do you say that, mademoiselle? Who should wish to poison Dr. Savaronoff?”
She shook her head.
“I do not know. I am in the dark. And my uncle, he will not trust me. It is natural, perhaps. You see, he hardly knows me. He saw me as a child, and not since till I came to live with him here in London. But this much I do know, he is in fear of something. We have many secret societies in Russia, and one day I overheard something which made me think it was of just such a society he went in fear. Tell me, monsieur”—she came a step nearer, and dropped her voice—“have you ever heard of a society called the ‘Big Four?’”
Poirot jumped nearly out of his skin. His eyes positively bulged with astonishment.
“Why do you—what do you know of the Big Four, mademoiselle?”
“There is such an association, then! I overheard a reference to them, and asked my uncle about it afterwards. Never have I seen a man so afraid. He turned all white and shaking. He was in fear of them, monsieur, in great fear, I am sure of it. And, by mistake, they killed the American, Wilson.”
“The Big Four,” murmured Poirot. “Always the Big Four! An astonishing coincidence, mademoiselle, your uncle is still in danger. I must save him. Now recount to me exactly the events of that fatal evening. Show me the chessboard, the table, how the two men sat—everything.”
She went to the side of the room and brought out a small table. The top of it was exquisite, inlaid with squares of silver and black to represent a chessboard.
“This was sent to my uncle a few weeks ago as a present, with the request that he would use it in the next match he played. It was in the middle of the room—so.”
Poirot examined the table with what seemed to me quite unnecessary attention. He was not conducting the inquiry at all as I would have done. Many of the questions seemed to me pointless, and upon really vital matters he seemed to have no questions to ask. I concluded that the unexpected mention of the Big Four had thrown him completely off his balance.
After a minute examination of the table and the exact position it had occupied, he asked to see the chessmen. Sonia Daviloff brought them to him in a box. He examined one or two of them in a perfunctory manner.
“An exquisite set,” he murmured absentmindedly.
Still not a question as to what refreshments there had been, or what people had been present.
I cleared my throat significantly.
“Don’t you think, Poirot, that—”
He interrupted me peremptorily.
“Do not think, my friend. Leave all to me. Mademoiselle, is it quite impossible that I should see your uncle?”
A faint smile showed itself on her face.
“He will see you, yes. You understand, it is my part to interview all strangers first.”
She disappeared. I heard a murmur of voices in the next room, and a minute later she came back and motioned us to pass into the adjoining room.
The man who lay there on a couch was an imposing figure. Tall, gaunt, with huge bushy eyebrows and white beard, and a face haggard as the result of starvation and hardships, Dr. Savaronoff was a distinct personality. I noted the peculiar formation of his head, its unusual height. A great chess player must have a great brain, I knew. I could easily understand Dr. Savaronoff being the second greatest player in the world.
Poirot bowed.
“M. le Docteur, may I speak to you alone?”
Savaronoff turned to his niece.
“Leave us, Sonia.”
She disappeared obediently.
“Now, sir, what is it?”
“Dr. Savaronoff, you have recently come into an enormous fortune. If you should—die unexpectedly, who inherits it?”
“I have made a will leaving everything to my niece, Sonia Daviloff. You do not suggest—”
“I suggest nothing, but you have not seen your niece since she was a child. It would have been easy for anyone to impersonate her.”
Savaronoff seemed thunderstruck by the suggestion. Poirot went on easily.
“Enough as to that: I give you the word of warning, that is all. What I want you to do now is to describe to me the game of chess the other evening.”
“How do you mean—describe it?”
“Well, I do not play the chess myself, but I understand that there are various regular ways of beginning—the gambit, do they not call it?”
Dr. Savaronoff smiled a little.
“Ah! I comprehend you now. Wilson opened Ruy Lopez—one of the soundest openings there is, and one frequently adopted in tournaments and matches.”
“And how long had you been playing when the tragedy happened?”
“It must have been about the third or fourth move when Wilson suddenly fell forward over the table, stone dead.”
Poirot rose to depart. He flung out his last question as though it was of absolutely no importance, but I knew better.
“Had he anything to eat or drink?”
“A whisky and soda, I think.”
“Thank you, Dr. Savaronoff. I will disturb you no longer.”
Ivan was in the hall to show us out. Poirot lingered on the threshold.
“The flat below this, do you know who lives there?”
“Sir Charles Kingwell, a member of Parliament, sir. It has been let furnished lately, though.”
“Thank you.”
We went out into the bright winter sunlight.
“Well, really, Poirot,” I burst out. “I don’t think you’ve distinguished yourself this time. Surely your questions were very inadequate.”
“You think so, Hastings?” Poirot looked at me appealingly. “I was bouleversé, yes. What would you have asked?”
I considered the question carefully, and then outlined my scheme to Poirot. He listened with what seemed to be close interest. My monologue lasted until we had nearly reached home.
“Very excellent, very searching, Hastings,” said Poirot, as he inserted his key in the door and preceded me up the stairs. “But quite unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary!” I cried, amazed. “If the man was poisoned—”
“Aha,” cried Poirot, pouncing upon a note which lay on the table. “From Japp. Just as I thought.” He flung it over to me. It was brief and to the point. No traces of poison had been found, and there was nothing to show how the man came by his death.
“You see,” said Poirot, “our questions would have been quite unnecessary.”
“You guessed this beforehand?”
“‘Forecast the probable result of t
he deal,’” quoted Poirot from a recent bridge problem on which I had spent much time. “Mon ami, when you do that successfully, you do not call it guessing.”
“Don’t let’s split hairs,” I said impatiently. “You foresaw this?”
“I did.”